


Homerun

by TalicTriesToWrite



Series: A Collection of Stray Kids Oneshots [7]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Character Death, Character Study, Child Abuse, Dissociation, Kim Seungmin-centric, Other, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sports, University, Violence, gang gang, i spelt homerun in one word fight me, idk where rest of skz at, mark this for later u cowards, surely baseball softball teeball and cricket are all the same thing, you know i milk that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29281977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalicTriesToWrite/pseuds/TalicTriesToWrite
Summary: In the ever-changing medium of Kim Seungmin’s life, baseball has always remained a constant.The thing he likes about it is that it’s so damn simple.Besides, the feeling of a baseball bat in his hand is grounding. He can squeeze the polished wood with all his might, and it won’t break.It keeps him safe.
Series: A Collection of Stray Kids Oneshots [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564417
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Homerun

In the ever-changing medium of Kim Seungmin’s life, baseball has always remained a constant.

His father introduced it to him at five, buying him a pitcher’s glove and throwing to him every day after day-care and school.

They played until he got a bat for his seventh birthday, swapped places, and played some more.

Then his mother died in a car crash a few months later.

Then his father picked up more shifts and more beers.

He didn’t want to play anymore after that.

That’s when he joined the school team, then the Saturday morning team and hit balls to kids his age or to the wall when his father sat and drank and drank.

He had asthma as a kid, something that choked up his windpipe, stopped his from being able to speak, able to breathe.

Now he’s seventeen, and he’s grown out of that asthma like he had all his childish manners. In his final year of school – plans to go to an Ivy League if he makes it (which he probably will) blah, blah, blah. The baseball helps him out in achieving that anyway – scouts have been appearing at some of his school games and Coach says he’s got a good chance of being seen. His father still drinks and sometimes smacks him around, but he’s used to it.

Just one more year and he can get out.

He ponders this several-step-plan as he waits for his name to be called out in after-school practice, for his time to play comes.

The feeling of a baseball bat in his hand is grounding. He can squeeze the polished wood with all his might, and it won’t break. Every single one weighs the same, heavier at the front than where it’s gripped, yet they all have specialities too, things that make them individual.

Seungmin likes to think that baseball bats are like people. All made into a mould of perfection, some a light wood some darker, some with writing and victories stamped on its base others not; all the same yet all so different.

The one he uses in-game is his. Most of the baseball team use the ones provided by the school, but not him. They say it’s his lucky charm, the reason why he’s the best. As much as he scoffs at superstition and feels slightly belittled at the complete discredition of his hard-earned talent, he can’t eliminate the possibility of an association.

Since he got it last year, he’s never played a game without it.

The thing he likes about baseball is that it’s so damn simple.

Wait for the ball to come, hit it in the diamond as far as he possibly can. Then run. Make the homerun.

Simplicity at its peak. And yet the different batting styles, the pitcher’s techniques, all add a level of complexity, or excitement to it.

He loves it.

Plus, he’s (if he doesn’t brag too much) _pretty good_ at it. He’s chosen first for the team, always hits the most home runs, and usually wins it for the school. There’s a large level of pride and respect in that, Seungmin believes. Maybe also some pressure, but he doesn’t like to think about that.

Sure, _maybe_ suppressing and bottling up natural feelings isn’t great, surely just adding to the already substantial pressure inside of him, but it’s okay. The thing is he’s a methodical, calm, logical person. He doesn’t explode on the rare occasion he screws up a hit or doesn’t make it to the base before he’s out – not like some of his teammates.

He’s Kim Seungmin. He’s _good_ at staying level-headed. It’s what makes him an even greater player. His coach often tells him that after training. Says it increases his already a rather high chance of being selected for a college team.

And that’s his way out; out of this town, out of this team, out of his house.

Away from his father.

“You’re up Kim,” Coach smiles, pats him on the back.

Pulling his helmet down on his head, he shoots the young, maybe early-thirty-something-year-old a thumbs-up and smiles at his teammates who jostle him around in a boyish manner in a premature victory.

When he stands at his base, the faux-opposition team throwing the baseball up and down, he feels ignited.

When the sound of the wooden bat hitting it perfectly, he feels alive.

He smiles as he runs, the distorted sound of people clamouring to get the ball familiar.

His team cheers when he touches fourth base.

It’s just like always, just as expected.

A homerun.

He enters in his college applications and preferences with no hesitation.

He knows the list, where he wants to go; he has since he started middle school.

Harvard is the main one. In honesty, he wanted to only apply for there, not consider anything less of course, but Coach made him apply for at least three more.

So, Princeton, Yale and Dartmouth were begrudgingly added to the list.

Princeton didn’t seem that bad – not as good as Harvard obviously, it didn’t hold quite as much of the prestige, but still an… alright option. Campus a little… unrefined maybe. The other two had their own issues, but he doubts he’ll need to encounter and deal with any of them, hence placing them third and fourth on his preference list respectively.

He’ll get into Harvard. He has to.

He really fucking has to.

He likes Coach.

Seungmin likes Coach because he’s simple. Like baseball.

Coach helps him out a lot; helps his technique, his strength, his speed, but is always there for a chat. Seungmin thinks he might be biased and possibly incorrect, but he also thinks Coach likes him best out of the team; maybe it’s because they’re both Asian in a white man’s America, but that would just be too shallow.

In truth, Coach helps him out more than the man probably thinks – Seungmin’s never had someone he feels he can trust so easily. Sometimes he wonders if he should confide in the other about his home life. The way he feels so small like that weak child he used to be whenever he sees his father, but each time he attempts it’s like the asthma returns and he just can’t get out the words.

So, life goes on.

“The soup is cold, boy,” comes the gritted critique.

Seungmin freezes, the spoon of dinner he made stopping halfway to his mouth. Carefully, trying to ease his hammering heart, his trembling anticipatory fear, he swallows.

“I’m sorry, Dad, I’ll be better next time.”

His father scoffs and a sliver of frustration jolts through Seungmin’s entire body.

In reality, the soup is cooked perfectly. It was only through his father being home later than his text message of ‘930’ (with no care to say a quick ‘I love you’ or even place the colon in the timestamp) that meant it sat out on the table a minute longer than it should have. But the only reality that matters in this household, no matter if Seungmin found the soup almost too hot himself, is his father’s.

The man gets up, pushes the bowl away.

Almost Pavlovian, involuntary tears form in the corner of Seungmin’s eyes. “D-Dad-”

“Get up, Seungmin.”

Stiff, he obeys. Because that’s what he does, always has done.

In the wilting flower of hope, he lets out a trembling whisper. “Please.”

There’s no response.

When it starts, a few soft smacks, elevating into hits, progressing into punches to his entire body, Seungmin dreams just to escape it all.

Dreams of the cheers when he hits another homerun. Dreams of the split second of anticipatory quietness before to satisfying ‘clink’ of ball meeting bat. Dreams of the thrill of reaching home base before the ball does.

Dreams of a future where he’s away from these caging walls and instead in a Harvard dorm room.

Dreams of Harvard, Harvard, Harvard.

A week later an important assignment is due. History. He had finished it days earlier to the point it met every single line of the criteria, plus extra credit guidelines. Yet, at three a.m. he rereads it again and again, checking for a misplaced comma, a single flaw that will stop him from getting one hundred percent.

He can’t risk a single error these days, not in studying not in baseball. Both are his only way out.

He falls asleep at five, hunched over at his desk. He wakes up at six. Baseball practice.

He misses some shots due to lethargy and hates himself for it. Coach first tells him off, then at the end asks if he’s okay.

“I’m alright, Coach,” Seungmin forces himself to believe it’s true. “Missed out on a bit of sleep – worked on a final.”

Coach nods, understanding and empathetic. “Right, Kim, but don’t forget sleep is the single most important thing you can control right now.”

Seungmin offers a smile. “Harvard doesn’t wait for sleepers, Coach! If I literally snooze, I lose.”

He walks away to the changing room before Coach can comment on how dark his eyebags are or see how he slowly feels like he’s crumbling apart.

Because that’s weak. And he can’t be weak.

Sport doesn’t accept the weak. Harvard won’t accept the weak.

For everything he’s ever worked for, he must be strong. He must be.

On Sunday he goes to mass. He doesn’t much believe in God, he hasn’t since his mother’s tragic death and the way that turned his father into a monster. Despite it all, he attends.

He stands in the back row, hands in his pockets of fine school pants. His shoulders ache and the base of his neck throbs awkwardly as he stands, making his posture unclean and incorrect.

Someone casts him a glance. He straightens up, wonders if the elderly woman had ever seen him play before at a Friday game.

When the priest calls for people to be blessed, Seungmin shuffles up, his heart in his throat. He’s nervous for no good reason. Perhaps it’s because he’s scared someone will see.

“Please give me your hands,” the priest says with a gentle smile.

For the first time that day, Seungmin takes his hands out of their pockets, his cuffed sleeves rolling up at the motion.

The man takes one look at his forearm: a mottled bruise.

Seungmin tries to pull away, but the man grasps firmer, yet still impossibly gentle, his eyes scouring his body like a survivor looking for life forms on a wasteland.

Seungmin feels his neck, where purple lies, and his ears, burn. His heart thunders, and his palms sweat.

The priest looks into his eyes, looking older than before. Understanding.

“May God be with you,” is all he says.

Seungmin nods and wonders why his heart sinks. “And with you.”

His father questions him when he returns later – having needed a few hours of swing practice to calm his nerves at his largest secret being revealed.

“You’re a believer now, are ya?” he says, facing away from him, drink in hand.

Seungmin stills, a Pavlovian response, as he expected the elder to be working. “No.”

His father turns then, his face dangerously blank.

“I got a call,” he explains, setting the almost empty bottle down with a ‘clink.’ “From the priest. Had to stop working to take it.”

Seungmin swallows, unsure what to say, scared of what to think. His father continues for him.

“You know what that means, boy?”

Seungmin shakes his head.

His father leans in close, till his hot alcohol-smelling breath hitting his cheek. “It means I’ll have to get a little better at my punches.”

Seungmin tenses, but he’s a second too late. The fist erupts his stomach like a volcano fiery pain, then again, and again, and again.

He’s on the floor, biting his lip to muffle his pained gasps as his father kicks and stomps. From the peripheral of his tear-blurred vision, he spots his baseball bat resting idly against the coat stand.

And he dreams of an alternate reality where he’s brave and strong enough to reach it, and for once fight back.

He gets his history assignment back. Ninety-nine percent.

Seungmin wonders why he even tried.

“A university recruiter here today; Dartmouth and Princeton,” Coach explains with a serious clap of his hands. “She and her team have been at the past few games as I’ve mentioned, and in conjunction with your stats and your grades here, after the game, she’s coming and will tell you who she’s offering a place for, alright boys?”

There’s a slightly less energetic than usual cheer and Seungmin forces a gritted smile. Everyone’s nervous today. This game could determine all their individual fates.

“Kim, you’re up first,” Coach turns to him, a serious glint in his eye.

Seungmin nods, determined and retains his smile for his team who whistle and laugh in encouragement for him.

When he gets to his base, he eyes his competition. Short, a little pudgy but most of the powerful pitchers are. He stamps his feet on the ground to shake off the residual dirt, glances around at the cheering crowd. There’s many here today, maybe three hundred.

He eyes the blue cap of the recruiter with a solid motivation. He can do this.

The first ball comes at him with a _‘whizz’_ slicing clean through the air.

When he hits it, there’s a resounding cheer. He sprints. When he reaches fourth base the cheer grows louder and Seungmin smiles as one of his teammates leaps onto his back. A homerun – just as expected.

He plays perfectly.

In the changing room after the game’s conclusion, the recruiter looks away from her list with a smile, her blue eyes piercing.

His name hasn’t been called out.

At first, he wonders if it’s because if the Korean Hangul name sometimes the school keeps his name as rather than using the English alphabet to explain its pronunciation because his mother never gifted him an English name and he never quite liked the idea of conforming to a Western society much anyways.

So maybe the scout just paused because without knowing Korean it _would be difficult_ to say a jumble of seemingly misplaced lines in English. But the woman with a smile, her wrinkles showing under her University Baseball Association cap, and Seungmin feels his stomach’s contents curdle.

The Coach, the recruiter and the team’s best catcher and the second-best batter, the only victors, walk out of the room.

“What the fuck? How were _you_ not _chosen?”_ one of his teammates, a senior of the name Samuel says when it’s just the team left in the changing room.

Seungmin swallows his shame and strips off his shirt glad there are no large or obvious bruises he can’t pretend aren’t from practice. He can sense the eyes of his friends around him.

“Don’t worry about it, guys,” he says past the lump in his throat. “She was just scouting for Dartmouth and Princeton, right? Those two don’t really have a good curriculum for my course, so I’m not too worried about it.”

Lies.

In actuality, Princeton is his second-highest pick.

But it doesn’t matter, he’ll get into Harvard, of course, he will, he essentially has to. Not all universities can _reject_ him, it’d be foolish! A completely blasphemous situation and a complete loss on everyone’s parts!

He will get into an Ivy League, he will get into an Ivy League, he _will_ get into an Ivy League-

The coach sympathetically pats his shoulder when it’s just them, the pair standing in the centre of the diamond.

“Don’t worry about this one, alright Kim?” the man comforts softly, and Seungmin hates how he can hear the sad pity in his voice.

He brushes the man off, his emotions slightly more transparent now as his teammates are gone. “it’s fine. I get it.”

“Seungmin-” the coach tries but Seungmin bites his lip and turns away.

“I’m fine Coach,” he shuts down, walking off the diamond. “I’ll see you at training tomorrow.”

He can’t put up with is father, not tonight.

He’s at the local park, one that has a baseball diamond, and actually rather expensive large lights that illuminate the bases.

He’s in the centre of it all, a light shining directly on his side; almost silhouetting his body and highlighting the light trickle of rain that is falling from the heavy black clouds.

He feels a rage and jilted pity bubble under his skin like red, hot blood.

Rejected. Not chosen. Not good enough. DeMarcus got chosen for Princeton and Dartmouth, and he’s better than DeMarcus He can hit further than DeMarcus, with more precision and accuracy and power and-

Why is he even _doing this?_ Doing anything.

He’s obviously shit at school. Ninety-nine fucking percent. What a fucking joke.

Baseball is his everything. The one thing he was truly good at. It’s all he has left.

And yet he still wasn’t chosen.

Fury.

The bat in his hands, hitting the ground and sending jolting, angry vibrations of force up his shaking arms feels almost more satisfying then hitting the perfect ball. It leaves behind damage; grass torn out and revealing the deep dark dirt underneath. It reminds him he does have power; he _can_ change something.

So, with the rain trickling down, the stadium light casting his shadow in front of him, everything else dark, he hits and hits and hits.

It’s a Wednesday when he loses his first game.

He’d blame it on the good pitcher, but he’s won against the regional high school champion who beat this team last year. He’d blame it on the sun’s beaming heat, but he’s won in worse conditions.

He’d blame it on the mounting pressure, but then he’d look weak.

He’d blame it on the black bruises that mar his body, but then his secret would be out.

Coach pats him on his back empathetically and Seungmin tries his hardest not to wince.

“You played well,” the elder says. “Head up, alright?”

He nods. Keeps his head down. Grips the bat until his knuckles turn white.

He does the exact same thing when his father drinks too much and beats him that evening, the pain explosive.

Holding onto the bat, the weapon, the thing that could change it all.

But never doing truly anything.

He doesn’t let himself cry when the notice arrives.

_‘We are sorry to inform you, but Harvard cannot offer you a position in the graduating class of 2022.’_

Failure. Rejection.

Lost.

Everything he had worked for… it had been for nothing. His escape, his dream, all gone. In one stupid sentence.

When his father beats him again that night, he finally lets himself weep.

Princeton rejects him a week later.

He misses a few shots in practice, and his teammates jovially push him around a little bit in a little rough-and-tumble. He pretends to laugh just to do anything except let his friends see the deep, gaping hole of weakness in his heart.

His father doesn’t speak to him when he gets home, just eats his steak and passes him a plate made full up of dinner. Seungmin blinks at it, reigning in his surprise, and sits adjacent from the man, chewing the overcooked meat slowly like it's poisoned but also like it is a priceless delicacy.

When he’s alone in his bedroom, his reality sinks in.

His number one rejected him. His number two, his _backup plan_ rejected him _too._

Yale is number three, _but god_ even if he gets in, can he even show his face there?

The embarrassment that he’d failed not just once but _twice_ nay – a _third time_ by even _considering_ such a low option…

He goes to church in search of hope. A cross hangs above them all. Seungmin flips the little card of the ten commandments between his thumb and forefinger. He scans the fifth one with a scoff.

_‘Thou shalt honour thy father and mother’_

Yeah, right.

He hums gently as he reads the other nine, agreeing with all of them (notably the sixth), except those indicating that a God of any sorts is real such as the first ones.

Putting the card down, he scans the building. One family is resting at the front pews chattering quietly. Another man, one looking older than himself sits near the back like him.

The confessional booth lies in the corner of the room and a childish curiosity seeks him to explore it. But he left those childish ways long behind him – it had died the first night he had stayed up late to study rather than to escape into his fantastical dream-world.

“Are you alright, son?”

It’s the priest.

“Yes,” Seungmin lies, pretending it’s true.

“You’re in your final year, aren’t you Seungmin?” he asks.

Seungmin nods. The Church and the priest himself had been rather involved in the small town’s community, including the school’s sports games. With himself in the main line-up, many people knew him even if they hadn’t spoken.

“Have the college results been mailed out?”

Seungmin wants to roll his eyes at the out-dated terms but decides not to refute it. “Uh – yes.”

“And you are disappointed?”

Seungmin almost feels offended the man would assume, but when he turns to the holy figure, he deflates with a exhale.

_Maybe everyone knows,_ he thinks. “In confidence, Priest, I am.”

The man hums, the sound cracked yet wise and sits beside him.

“Everything works out in the end, son. Under our father, the Lord we have the gift of his tutorage and guidance.”

Seungmin raises his eyebrows but doesn’t talk back – the least he can do is respect other people’s opinions.

The priest shuffles in next to him, leaving a respectable space like he already knew Seungmin hates physical contact. “Why do you think God gives this world, his creation, and us, his children, pain?”

Seungmin hesitates, surprised by the question. “To… humble us?”

The other man hums. “In truth, we as mere humans do not know.”

Seungmin hides his scoff. What a pussy answer. He doesn’t even know why he let himself get his hopes up for an actually interesting conversation, for someone to surprise him in this dead town.

“However,” the priest remarks suddenly and Seungmin feels the bitter feeling in his heart stop for just a moment. “Pain can show sacrifice, and from that we can be taught many things.”

Seungmin wants to ask more when the elderly man pauses, but for some reason, under the cross, feels almost too intimidated to speak.

“God sent his only son to this world to be abused, mocked, and killed by broken men,” he continues. “Both God and Jesus overcame their pains to save us. Overcoming struggle can also be a sign of strength – and courage.”

Seungmin nods, mute. The priest stands up.

And he’s left alone, physically, but there’s something, someone, else weighing on his mind.

He strikes out in the semi-finals.

It’s his first time since he was twelve.

It was his final and most important baseball game of his senior year.

The rain pours for them when the team destined to make it, goes home on the bus, muddy shoes and crest-fallen attitudes. All he can think about when he watches a school in Ohio parade around with the trophy that was _supposed to be his_ on TV, is how much he truly failed.

Yale accepts him and he clicks ‘confirm’ belatedly.

He’s valedictorian but misses out on the perfect scores on the SATs or other exams.

In his speech, he lies about courage and hope and his thanks to everyone who supported him. He eyes the priest in the audience. Gives him a nod. Is glad his father didn’t show up, cause if he did, he’d most likely be drunk.

When everyone leaves, when everyone throws their caps and walk through the gates, Seungmin stays behind. His watches his classmates chatter excitedly about their happy futures as they depart and wish he got to know them better. Studying and baseball had been his entire life.

Now baseball was gone.

And his education… he’d missed out on Harvard, he’d missed out on Princeton, and after a superficial speech and a sash, valedictorian meant nothing. It meant nothing because no one even cared.

No one cares at all.

He slinks home defeated in the trickle of rain. Thinks of his mother – wonders if she would care.

Still, no point in entertaining the impossible. She’d been dead for a long time.

He can barely even remember her face.

He wasn’t sure why, but that realisation struck him. Electrifying his skin in the most gut-wrenching, painful way. It stuck with him from the time he got home, sat with him while he stoically gazed out his window, his fingers itching to pick up a pen to do homework that didn’t exist, or hit a few balls.

When it got to dinnertime (that he had to call and prepare himself as his father decided not to come home and not tell him) every bitter, sorrowful, sad thought dragged him down. It felt like the rain now lashing outside was water-logging his clothes, despite them being warm and dry.

What the hell was he even doing? Making a meal for two when it should have been three and there was only one to eat it.

Stupid baseball. Stupid valedictorian. Stupid Harvard. Stupid Princeton. Stupid everything.

He was done with it all. And yet, even at that thought, like always he would never do anything about.

Stupid, stupid-

“Seungmin,” comes the voice.

Seungmin turns around, over a growing-cold pot of noodles, and watches distantly, feeling floaty, as his father stumbles in.

“Get me some fucking dinner, would ya?”

Seungmin bites his lip at the demand, his frustration somehow linking him back to the earth, his situation, like a balloon’s string.

Still, he nods, scoops the noodles into two ceramic bowls. “Yes.”

As he pours the noodles and their accompanying soup, he remembers a day where he was beaten for the exact reason of slightly cold or rather deemed cold from his father, food. That day he could dream of Harvard, dream of baseball.

This time he won’t be able to dream of anything.

He has nothing to dream of; dream for.

Expectedly his father yells when he eats his first bite. Somehow Seungmin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t plead, doesn’t have those stupid, stupid tears pre-emptively forming in his eyes like all the other times. Maybe life had disappointed him enough already his biology decided to have mercy on him.

Probably not.

To distract himself from the pain, as he lies in a crumpled ball, almost a foetal position on the cold, cold, tiles, Seungmin decides to stare at his house. He never really noticed the cracks that formed a sort of ‘Y’-shape in the wall before. He latches his mind onto the noodles now spilled over in rage dripping onto the floor and tries to hear it drip-drop over his father’s screams, the thunder outside masking it, and his own sniffled cries.

His heart aches at a particularly painful kick. He wonders if his mother was around if this would ever happen to him. He wonders if he told Coach about the bruises on his back that day if it could all be stopped. He wonders if he ever had the courage to confess to what the priest probably already knew if all his suffering could end.

“Pain is a sign of strength,” he whispers to himself between choked, wheezing breathes, like it’ll be true. “Pain can be sacrifice too.”

Finally, his eyes find the baseball bat resting innocently by the door. Another kick. He thinks about wrapping his hands around the wooden handle, swinging it so hard he hits a ball flying at him perfectly. Some spittle landing on his cheek.

Like divine intervention manifesting in himself, he uncurls himself.

“You’re useless!” his father screams. Seungmin can hear it again. Usually, he disassociates enough he can shield himself away from the abuse. “Fucking failure you-”

Quiet. Maybe his mind isn’t as stupid as he thinks – he can basically cause himself to become deaf at will. Directing all his slowly sapping energy to his hand, he pushes himself up.

He thinks about his history assignment, the ninety-nine percent.

He thinks about slamming the head of the bat into the grass, leaving angry marks in the green, green grass.

He thinks about Coach’s comfort and how he never really thanked him at graduation.

He thinks about striking out and losing his game that one Wednesday. Or about being rejected from Harvard, from Princeton, from Dartmouth where DeMarcus is going.

He crawls towards the door.

Pain wakes him up from his mind, his fantasies.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going!?” a hand around his throat, pulling him to his feet.

He’s eight, choking on his own tears at the funeral.

He’s eleven, huffing and clawing for his puffer after running his first homerun at Little League.

He’s fourteen and gasps for air when his father chokes him for the first time.

_Please-_

No. He can’t beg. _Won’t_ beg. He can’t be weak; he has to be strong. Pain is a sign of strength.

So, he grits out, “I hate you.”

His father’s clouded eyes widen, and the hand opens.

Seungmin steps back, escaping the next blow. “I fucking hate you!”

He turns, a flash of lightning illuminating the messy dining room and he turns, strides towards the kitchen, the door.

The pouring rain is ferocious, thundering in his ears. A calloused hand grasps harshly onto his shoulder and Seungmin gasps in a scared pain, twists away.

“Get the fuck back here!” his father yells, the sound overpowering the storm, overpowering Seungmin himself.

But he can’t freeze. He can’t do this anymore, can’t take it anymore.

His bat is in his hand before he knows it. The wood is smooth in his hand, the weight comforting, the sensation grounding. He can be safe. He _can_ be.

It’s like all his dreams, all the alternate realities he’s constructed for himself over the years to distract himself from being so weak.

_Strong, strong, strong-_

He sees the ball, barrelling towards him with such a dangerous intent.

Exhale. Grip the bat tighter.

Swing.

Quiet. Then an explosion of noise.

Not looking back, Seungmin gasps for a pained breath, like the asthma in his childhood returning to him once again, poisoning his lungs, his respiratory system.

He crumples onto the dingy kitchen bench, the night’s uncooked noodles sitting innocently like nothing was happening. A part of him wants to remain, stay, freeze.

But he can’t. He _can’t,_ he can’t, he can’t-

_Get up._

Using all his strength, he pushes himself until he’s standing again, sprints through the kitchen, over the obstacles in his way. He feels ill, his lungs burning, but there’s something more than all of that combined – freedom.

In quick haste, he grabs the emergency backpack he’s kept for this very moment out from his closet, tugs on a raincoat, the lightning flickering dangerously outside.

He squeezes the bat as he reaches the front door, reminds himself that’s he’s okay – he’s alive.

Then, he pushes open the door and flees.

There’s a light on next door. The rain pummels his red cheeks.

He runs down the middle of the night’s empty road like the bus stop across town is the fourth base. He can make it; he can make it-

Distantly, there’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears. It comes in and out of focus like a loud scream, or a buzzer would if his ear was slightly full of water. It sounds somewhat like a baby crying but also something so unnatural like a fire alarm, or emergency warning.

However, what he can hear the most is the sound of his breath, quick yet controlled pants. He can hear the rain too, the rumbling thunder.

And he can feel the baseball bat in his hands; it reminds him of his purpose.

Make the home run.

**Author's Note:**

> yoooo, long time no see. wanted to write something short like 'breathe' again but idk even though it's less than 10k it doesn't really vibe with me as much as breathe did. maybe it's cause not all stray kids in this?? idk just wanted to do a little character study - these days i can only seem to write seungmin and hyunjin idk why. idk why I'm only writing lowercase like a depressed fourteen year old either.
> 
> uhhh so - analysis i guess. basically this is about reality and having too high expectations and self-sabotage. like kinda bad he was stuck in this cycle of abuse and i know its hard to overcome that but there were a lot of chances seungmin could have told someone? like the coach or the preist - they both cared about them but seungmin felt too hopeless to try and reach out. also about the whole harvard thing - yeah he didn't get in (maybe because all he did was study and baseball, no volunteering or leadership?? idk harvard's criteria lol) but he acted like yale was soooo bad.like no? yale is still good? idk shit about american schools lol so,,,,
> 
> alright, gang, the ending. what do you think happened? he did escape to so many different fantasies while being abused so do you think he was just dreaming again or do you think he killed him? idk did you guys even think it could be a dream? lol 
> 
> anyway, just a short ramble. hope you liked and please comment because I'm lonely today lol. trying to write a really cool fic but there's a lot of layers and will probably end up 50k words or something but v excited for it. t includes all eight of stray kids not just one like homerun, and omg i love it. (sorry to everyone here from 'i am you' - really not vibing that fic rn but hopefully i won't drop the bitch)
> 
> byeeeee (don't know why i'm so cringe in this author note forgive me)
> 
> talic


End file.
